


Matters Of The Mind

by Louffox



Series: For the Wild Friends [3]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: 2nd Person, Begging, Dark!wilde, Discussion of past violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Magic, Mindfuck, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, Other, ask and ye shall recieve, discussion of mentally breaking a person, magic sex, mental sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Louffox/pseuds/Louffox
Summary: Request: Dark!Wilde, mindfuckery, orgasm delay/denial
Relationships: Oscar Wilde/You
Series: For the Wild Friends [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752115
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	Matters Of The Mind

His hand, held steadily out, delicate fingers relaxed, palm up in a friendly, open manner, nails and skin clean-

His hand flexes.

You flex with it.

A puppet.

He holds the string. The strings. All the strings. He holds all the strings. He pulls all the strings.

You bend.

The spell already has you. His magic is within you, like barbs, like poison, hot and insidious, indiscernible from the swelter and pound of your own blood. The somatic element is not required, but Oscar Wilde is a showy man, both loving to play and to watch .

This is a bit of both.

There is no contact, but you're still burning and begging from his touch. Not touch. Something... else. It is not your tactile sense he is manipulating, there's nothing to feel in that manner. This is different. Deeper. More intimate. Intrinsic, like a memory.

Can you come just from a thought?

You suspect you're going to find out. He dances his fingers again, and you arch. The puppetstrings bowstrings are taut and buzzing, a plucked chord, an instrument he plays- except the instrument is not making sound, but responding to it, some inverted loop of pull-push-pluck, all of this with him standing four feet away, fully dressed, lips dry and calm and tilted in the faintest of smiles. He looks composed and mildly interested, as if you're a newspaper ad for a delightful new patisserie, and not writhing and wholly nude and falling apart without falling apart, because you  _ want  _ to fall apart, you want to burst at the seams, come apart,  _ come, fall, fly- _

But he pulls, he has all the strings, he  _ pulls them  _ and you're trapped teetering on the cliff edge, the long needed orgasm playing along the edge of your nerves, extremities tingling and singing, trying to get there.

You are a puppet and he holds the strings.

You are an instrument he plucks and plays.

You are a kite and he holds you half in the sky.

You are sobbing and begging, dripping on the floor, sweating and drooling. And he is smiling.

"You're not bound. You can touch yourself, finish yourself off. You want to come? Go ahead, make yourself come. I'm not stopping you," he muses, finally standing and taking a slow pace round where you're on all fours on the ground, knees apart, face dropped beneath your shoulders, toes curling and hands contracting.

You're as incapable of discussion as you are dignity.

"I didn't take that, either.  _ You _ gave that up.  _ You _ let me in and you gave me everything," he answers, though you do not speak.

"You want this."

_ You want this _ .

"You will take what you asked for."

You  _ will  _ take what  you  _asked_ for.

You don't see his hand move, but you sense it, and then your senses are blowing and sparking again, dragging your mind a millimeter closer to that edge. You're gasping for air.

"Like this, you don't have the usual restraints of physicality. I could make you come over and over again a hundred, a thousand, a million times. Recovery? You won't need it. Or won't get it. I think you  _ would  _ need it, though. Not in a physical sense, but... something in the mind needs it. I did tell you, I've broken people like that. Sent them snapping through pleasure so fast and hard- and time doesn't exist the same in the mind."

He is in front of you now, dropping to a jaunty crouch like you're a show dog, elbows on his knees, tilting his head to study you.

"I sent a person into... the mind is electricity, they say. Jumping sparks." He snaps his fingers a few times to demonstrate. "I send pleasure through there, just turn on the come-switch and leave it running, and it sends the message as fast as thought, without stopping... I've no idea how many times they came in a second, but I think it was quite a lot, because they were absolutely broken before thirty seconds were up. I swear on my life," he says, as if you'd contradicted him or expressed disbelief. You had not. You had only panted, body flexing and twisting and grasping around nothing as it tried to reconcile the visceral pleasure with an absolute absence of touch. And as it tried to come, without success.

You try and focus on his words, but your body is  _ screaming  _ for sex, for pleasure, to  _ fall  _ and  _ fly _ , and it's like you have become a single line, a stretched thing between two points: what he's doing to you, and what he's saying to you. Everything beyond that ceases to be.

You buck and flex. You listen.

"Do you want to come?"

"Yes," you manage, the word urgent and splintering. Like you are. Like you want to be.

"Like them? A hundred thousand orgasms in a few seconds, the most intense and burning bliss you'll ever experience, followed instantly by darkness and confusion. You will lose yourself. Wonderfully, euphorically. But you will be gone. Do you want that?"

You know you're supposed to answer this no. You want to say yes. You can't think of being a person, being real, being anything beyond please-let-me-come and actually coming.

"No," you whisper.

He touches you for the first time all night. It isn't intimate or pleasurable in any special way, it doesn't help or hinder the screaming stuck train of the orgasm you desperately need. It is a palm resting on your scalp, fingers slipping into your hair, a gentle caress.

"Wise, pet. But if you're still wise, you're still thinking too much. Perhaps that's my fault," he sighs, stroking your hair. "I talk too much. Philosophy and history and things that don't belong in the bedroom. It's simply how I breathe. What do you think?"

_ If I don't come, I will die _ , you think, and he laughs.

"I think you're stronger than that. I think we can go a little further. Push a bit more."

He pulls the strings, and you scream and scream and scream.

**Author's Note:**

> tbh I've got defiant personality like whoa and when folks say "I need you to do this" I find myself utterly incapable of doing it, whether I wanted to or not. But sometimes. Things come together. People inspire each other. And the story is laid out before me like light flowing over the land at sunrise, the dark is pushed back and the path is there.
> 
> So i guess. having a bad day? request some porn. i will try and provide. <3
> 
> Also, Dark!Wilde fucks. yehaw.


End file.
